


Nothing Much Remains

by savingpeoplehuntingthings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ...I am a horrible person for writing this, Angst, But in Dean's POV, Cutting, Dean is a ghost, Dean is dead, Full of sadness, Gen, Impala, Salt And Burn, Sam is greiving, Slight spoilers for season 5, Wincest if you really really squint, Written in 2nd person, if that makes sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 11:44:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savingpeoplehuntingthings/pseuds/savingpeoplehuntingthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tessa's words stung: "How many spirits or ghosts stay nice Dean? How many harmless monsters have you met? They all turn sour Dean, and you will do the same. Come with me Dean."</p><p>"No."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Much Remains

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic in the second person!! Does anyone like it? I'm not sure so please tell me because it's not a commonly used writing style. Also there are no speech marks so please tell me if everything's clear!

 

 

You're angry...so angry. Why didn't he salt and burn your body? Why?

But you understand why. You couldn't do it when he was stabbed in the back all those years ago, and now that he's in the same position; you understand, you really do. But that doesn't stop Tessa's words from flooding back to you. 

How many spirits or ghosts stay nice Dean? How many harmless monsters have you met?

One. Maybe two. Out of hundreds.

They all turn sour Dean, and you will do the same. Come with me Dean.

But you'd said no, for the same reason that your body is still lying cold, stiff and so very dead on the lumpy sofa. You can't let go, and neither can your brother. Somehow, it's become a family trait - an unhealthy one at that, but you don't mind. You'll be the one in a thousand, the one in a million. You won't turn sour. And then you can have a little longer with him. Then you'll go. When you've said all you can say, you'll go. When you've said goodbye, you'll go. And you'll wait for him, wherever you end up.

It seems only yesterday that he could barely lift his juice beaker by himself, and now he's sitting alone, downing cup after cup after cup of some drink he's found. You're standing next to him, but he doesn't notice because he's so numb on the inside that he can't feel anything on the outside either. You want to hug him, to stroke his hair and wipe the tears from his cheeks. You want to let him know that you're here, but you can't. Because what would it do to him? It would ruin him.

You should have gone with Tessa but it's too late. It's all too late. You've tried calling; shouting until your throat's raw, but she won't come back. The only way is to salt and burn your corpse, but that means talking to Sam. He's too broken; you can't break him any more. You can't shatter what's barely there because then there'll be nothing left. And you need something left, because Sam is what keeps you - kept you - grounded. He was the stitches in your relationship, and now that you're gone, he has to glue himself back together all alone. And you must leave him to heal before you talk to him. So you wait. Wait until he is sober to talk. Wait until he's fed and rested.

But how likely is it that he'll take a shower; strip himself of his clothes that are stiff with your blood and god knows what else? How likely is it that he'll put down the bottle? Go to sleep? Stop crying? Wake up well rested, if not slightly hung-over? No... He won't make himself breakfast, won't wash it down with coffee, won't feel better. You know, because you know him too well.

He kept you grounded, yes. But now you're not grounded. Now you float…wander. With all the ghosts you've hunted, you've never really wondered what it felt like to actually be one. Things are different. You're finding it hard to distinguish Sam's thoughts and feelings from his words. His thoughts are a confused, drunken mess of pain, and his words are muttered, anguished pleas for your presence between gulps of drink and racking sobs, but sometimes you get confused. Time is different too, and it surprises you when you realise its past three in the morning and you're not tired at all. If you were alive, you'd be sleeping or drinking coffee right now to keep your eyes open. On cases, you'd often go for days without sleeping, and coffee was always your best friend. Instead, you're wide awake, that is, if ghosts can be awake. You stand in the doorway, leaning against the door frame, and stare out of the window. Outside, there's an endless black with a starless sky.

Sam falls asleep on the other sofa, facing your cold body. It's painful to watch him. You want to get in Baby and take a long drive to nowhere but you can't leave him. Soon he's dreaming, his breathing growing slower and more rhythmic. A sad smile plays on your lips as you remember that sound. And suddenly you want to be alive again.

And you're so angry, but you promised. You promised Tessa. You will not turn into a monster. You cannot turn into a monster. So you bury the anger and kneel on the floor next to Sam on the sofa. You feel so empty inside so you lean your head against his broad chest to remember what a heart beat feels like. His deep breaths calm you and ruffle your hair. You want to breathe again. His chest rises and falls and if you close your eyes you can pretend you're breathing too.

He stirs in his sleep, aware that something's there. A part of you is proud. The years and years of hunting have made his senses acutely aware of any disturbances. And if you were alive you could say that your heart leapt into your mouth with the anticipation and the nerves. Will he wake? What will you say to him if he wakes? He's not ready to talk to you. He's just lost you, and it'll break him if he sees you, only for you to say goodbye so he can lose you all over again. No. You're not going to do that. You can't do that to Sam.

But he wakes. His eyes flutter for a moment, then open; the lashes sticking together with crusted tears. You see his pupils shrink a little as he takes in the cheap lighting. You've never noticed the little details, like mouths breathing; pupils dilating; hearts beating, until now. He's so alive. And it makes you furious. So much so that it takes everything you have to not get angry. You can't kill him. You can't kill Sammy.

Dean? His voice his croaky and his eyes wide and sparking with joy. And then you see it: the sudden, crushing realisation that extinguishes any glimmer of happiness in him.

I'm dreaming aren't I?

And you know you'll never see that glimmer again. 

You'd forgotten that ghosts could cry. Funny that. As you dry your eyes, you remember your promise. Promise you'll let go Dean, promise you'll let go.

You failed him. And the words come tumbling out in a rush of guilt and embarrassment.

Yeah Sammy. You're dreaming.

What were you meant to say? He'd barely been asleep for an hour. He's too fragile to handle the truth. For now anyway.

Go to sleep Sammy. I'll come back. I promise.

Your words are sincere, and he knows it. It's a promise you'll keep this time. 

He nods, and shifts so his nose is pressed against the back of the sofa. That way you can't see his tears. He's so brave. And you're proud of your little brother. And you watch over him as he sleeps.

Before you know it, the sun is up and Sam is stirring. He thinks that you're a dream, so panicking, you make yourself invisible. You do it, just like that, with a little smirk on your face because who doesn't want to be invisible? It’s something everyone wants to try out, right? You'd be mad if you hadn't dreamt of being invisible at least once as a kid. But now you have it, the fun starts wearing off.

Sam is hunched over the small toilet, heaving. One hand is gripping the cistern, the other massaging his head with the heel of his palm. You want to help him, to bring him a glass of water, give him a damp cloth and some painkillers and tell him that he's alright...that he's safe. But he must keep thinking that you're just a dream. He's not ready. 

When will he be ready Dean? Will he ever be ready?

But he surprises you when he stands up, albeit shakily, to get some water to wash his mouth out and some painkillers from the first aid kit. He's doing what you'd do for him. He's being the older brother as well as the younger one. You're not there to take care of him so he's doing it all by himself. And you're proud of him…proud of his strength, both physically and mentally…proud that he hasn't broken his promise, even though you did:

Don't make a deal Sammy, don't make a deal. 

He won’t break his promise, because you know how strong he is.

But you also know that everything inside of him is longing to make a deal - any deal, to let you live again. You felt the same way when Sam had said yes to Lucifer and you'd thought he'd gone to hell. You understand him, and that makes you even more sad.

You lean against the door frame, arms folded as you watch him fall back to sleep. When he wakes, it's past midday. You hadn't noticed the time slipping by. He stumbles to the shower, rubbing his eyes. It pains you to leave him alone, but you do. He still needs his privacy.

When you come back, he's fully dressed and sitting at the table with his knife in his hand. Suddenly, you realise he's praying. He never did that in front of you, ever. Maybe he was embarrassed, maybe scared. Maybe he just needed time alone, time to gather his thoughts in this harsh life, away from his curious brother who would make fun of him. You regret the taunting and the teasing. Sam didn't deserve that. You don't want to intrude, but the scene is so beautiful, in a sick, twisted way. And you are curious. He'd always prayed when you were out getting food, or asleep, or in the shower.

His prayers are silent, but you can tell what he's saying from his lowered eyes and the fragments of his thoughts that you catch on the wind. You still haven't figured out how that works. His eyes say everything and nothing: everything because there's too much to say and not enough words to voice it; nothing because he's numb and dead inside - a hollow shell of a man. His thoughts are much the same as his words, and the only way you can tell he's not speaking is because his lips are pressed together because he's trying not to cry. Come back Dean. Come back.

He doesn't mean it, you tell yourself. He doesn't want you back. Who would want a ghost for a brother?

He looks up and you know he's finished when he starts flicking the blade open and closed and you can see him contemplating whether to put it to his wrists and just slice - watch the blood trickle out of him like, trickle out of him like his will to stay alive. Stop. Stop it Sammy. Stop. And he's about pierce the skin, but he stops, looking up.

And you realise you've made the lights flicker and the room grow cool. Sam stands up quickly, knocking over his chair which falls loudly onto the floor. His pupils dilate and his chest rises up and down and up and down with adrenaline. The knife is in his hands, and somehow he's managed to grab his hand gun with his other hand, which you know is filled with rock salt. That's gonna hurt. So you do what you have to do. You make yourself visible.

Sam drops the weapons and his hands fumble for the table to steady himself. You see the disappointment in his eyes as he realises what you've done. You didn't let go. You didn't let go Dean. You didn't let go.

His voice is heavy with disbelief and defeat. D-Dean? You're a ghost?

You nod, ashamed. When you look up, Sam's already drinking from the bottle he'd left on the table yesterday. You walk over to him, and you see him tense, unsure of whether to trust you or not. Slowly, you take the bottle from his hands.

Stop. Your voice is soft, pleading.

I can't. A small sob escapes his lips.

You can Sammy. You can.

But you never did. There's a bitter tone to his voice and to the memories that permeate the air. You think of all the times that things got too much to handle and you nearly drank yourself to death. It had been Bobby who had always stopped you; the 'town drunk', ironically. Sam had never been able to persuade you. Sam had never been strong enough.

I'm a crappy role model then, aren't I?

This earns you a sad smile. You set the nearly empty bottle down on the table. Sam's looking at you, and you see the tears pooling in his eyes.

There's hurt in his words: you didn't let-

I'm sorry Sam. You cut him off, not wanting his accusations to be voiced. The look in his eyes is enough for you to hate yourself for eternity. Besides, you've been hearing the words in his head, spinning round and round until he finally mustered up the courage to say them. He doesn't realise you can hear him think, and it needs to stay that way. You didn’t let go Dean. You didn't let go.

I don’t understand.

I couldn't. You shake your head sadly.

I miss you, he says simply, glancing over to the sofa where your body is lying. I could ask someone…I could make a deal… I could…

No Sammy. No.

You can see him cracking. You broke your promise. Can you let me break mine?

No Sammy, please.

Why not Dean? You haven't seen me these past days. I can't do it without you Dean. I can't.

The tears spill down his cheeks and you lift your thumb to wipe them away. You know your touch is cold - you see him flinch - but you hope it helps.

I was here. I was always here Sammy. I didn't leave you.

Please stay.

Not like this Sammy. I gotta go, you know that.

You see him waver, and slowly his knees buckle. You catch him, and this time he doesn't shy away from you when your skin touches his. He falls into your embrace and you sit with him on the floor and hold him while he cries. Shhh Sammy... Shhhh… It's going to be okay Sammy… I promise.

But he's stronger and braver than you thought, and his next words surprise you. You want me to salt and burn your body?

You panic. How do you answer that? You can't. You don't.

His voice trembles. I'll do it if you want me to Dean.

His eyes fixate on yours and he can read your answer just with one look. Yes.

So you dry your faces with the pad of your thumb and walk over to your corpse. He watches, a look of shock and surprise on his face as you raise your body.

You grin, trying to bring a little laugh into your words. You have to admit that's awesome, huh?

Awesome, he echoes. Yeah. Yeah, it's pretty awesome Dean.

With your mind, you open the door and you both follow the levitating corpse outside like a strange funeral procession. You lay your body carefully on the ground and turn to face Sam. He's holding salt and a canister of oil.

So this is it?

This is it Sammy.

You reach to take the salt and oil from his hands but he stops you.

Let me, Dean.

Okay.

The salt falls slowly and the oil drips out of the can. Once upon a time, these were the things you bought from lonely gas stations. These were the things that saved your life. These were the things that killed the bad guys. And now they're killing you. Time seems to have almost stopped. The tears falling from Sam's eyes run down his hot cheeks in slow motion. When your body is covered in the stuff, your brother turns and grips you his embrace. Then he digs around in his pocket but can't find his lighter. There are some matches in your pocket. You take the box out and hand it to him.

He strikes one and it lights the first time, despite his shaky hands. The flame flickers and sparks in the cool afternoon air. He closes his eyes and he drops it onto your body.

You expect it to hurt. You expect to feel your ghost go up in a blaze of heat.

You see the shock on his face when he opens his eyes, and hear his voice wobble with uncertainty. Why didn’t it work Dean?

I don't know. But then your eyes rest on Baby. She's parked in the driveway of the house in the middle of nowhere that you and Sam are - that Sam is squatting in. No. No.

No Dean. No. He's realised too and he shakes his head, not stopping the tears from coursing down his face. Your face is wet too.

No… Not your car Dean. No.

It's gotta be. I'm attached to her. You gotta - you gotta burn her too Sammy.

I can't.

You have to.

You could just stay.

I can't.

You've never realised how much of your life was spent in that car until now. You and Sam sliding around on the leather seats when you were little, curling up together to sleep under one of your dad's shirts. You and Sam pouring over library books or hunter's journals, reading passages aloud to your dad. You and Sam sleeping against the windows as the music played softly from the front. You and Sam sitting in the front seats, looking for dad. You and Sam driving to a town to fight a monster. You and Sam driving to a diner to get some food. You and Sam driving to a motel to sleep off the pain and the fear. You and Sam sleeping in the car on the side of the road because you were too tired to carry on driving. You and Sam and Baby.

There's so much stuff in the car. Sam is silent, emptying the glove compartment and taking out the box of fake IDs and badges. You can't hear his thoughts anymore. Maybe he's too numb to think. 

Maybe you're too numb to hear. 

You're slowly taking out the knives, the shotguns, the stakes, the rifles, the hex bags; the arsenal that you've used your whole life… You eject the tape that is still in the speaker system and now the car is empty. The box of tapes is on the gravel ground in the driveway, next to the duffel bags filled with clothes and the pile of weapons that Sam will need now. The car is just a shell. But it's still Baby. It still has yours and Sam's initials carved into it. The army man Sam shoved into the ash tray is still there. The Lego bricks you pushed down the heat vents are stuck there forever. It still smells of you…of Sam…of hunting…of being alive.

You can't watch. It hurts you to watch your brother douse the seats and floor with oil and shake the salt onto the back seat, and just the back seat because he can tell you'll want to sit in the driver's seat one last time. The tank is nearly empty, so there won't be an explosion. You won’t go out with a bang.

When you turn back around, Sam is sitting on the hood like he always used to. You join him, and you sit there for a long time with your brother. You're quiet. Everything's quiet.

After a while, you climb off the hood and open the driver's door. It makes that familiar creak. You sit in the oil soaked seat, feeling it stain your clothes. And suddenly, you just want it all to end.

You find your keys. You put them in the ignition and turn them slowly, feeling the car rumble into life for the very last time. Then you open the door and step outside so you’re standing next to Sam and next to your burnt body that's making the air smell rancid.

Sam finds a lighter in one of the bags on the floor because the box of matches that he used to burn your body has been lost under the piles of things you've accumulated over the years. The lighter's in his outstretched hand. Numbly, you reach out. Your fingers brush his and he whimpers. You close your hand around the lighter and lift it from his palm, your hand lingering on his.

You look at Sam. You look at the trail of oil he's left on the ground that snakes up to Baby.

Dean…

Sammy.

You're both trembling with silent tears. Everything is silent. This time you turn to him and you lose track of where your body starts and his begins because your hug is so fierce. You can feel him quivering as he buries his head in your shoulder. You can feel every tear roll off his cheek, feel every heart beat, feel every shuddering breath before you let him go... let him go... let go. And it feels like you've let the whole world fall.

You're shaking. You can't flick the lighter on. You try again. Again. Again. Then finally, there's a small flame. It's hot on your fingertips.

You raise your other hand to your forehead, touching two fingers. It's a salute to you, to the sacrifices you made in this life, a salute to all the friends and family you've lost along the way, but most of all, a salute to Sam.

Something about that gesture makes his face, glistening with tears, split into a smile. You smile back, dropping your hand.

Then you drop the lighter.

 

 

 

Nothing much remains of the car you once called home. Nothing much remains of you. Nothing much remains of Sam.


End file.
